Circumspect
by AstraPerAspera
Summary: At least he’d sleep better at night knowing that she was no longer some pawn in a game they were playing in order to keep him in line. Sam/Jack established. Spoilers for SGA: Enemy at the Gate


_A/N Thanks to my dynamic beta-ing duo, jenniferjf and mara-anni, this is more than it might otherwise have been._

**Circumspect**

by

AstraPerAspera

There were days he wished he'd listened better.

But then again, if he listened even half as much as anyone thought he did, he'd have to understand at least twice as much as he really wanted to these days. And because he had that date circled in red on his calendar—okay, so it was a _metaphorical _calendar, since they wouldn't let him keep paper any more and made him use that damned touch-thingy that was too small for him to see and with which he always ended up connecting to YouTube when he was trying to move the damn screens around—and he didn't plan on understanding _anything _once it had come and gone, then he decided that the less he knew in the interim, really, the better off he was.

Still. He had a feeling he definitely should have paid attention this time around. Or at least been aware that they were doingan end run around him. Then maybe he could have nipped the whole stupid thing in the bud. And it wouldn't have gone any further than the joke it had started out as when she'd used it to lure him away from the rest of SG-1 for a little alone time before the rest of the gang joined them. It had worked too. And that night, wrapped around each other like twist-ties—and for some reason that night stood out above so many other similarly satisfying ones—they'd laughed about it and how for once one of Bill Lee's ridiculous ideas had actually had some real value.

But that was before some brain trust at the IOA had gotten wind of it. And it hadn't helped that there was the little matter of a couple hundred Wraith darts whining in broad daylight over the southwestern part of the United States. And the Ancient Chair going up in so much Wraith smoke. And a flying city floating off the coast of San Francisco. And it hadn't taken long before some dickhead must have put two and two together and come up with the idea that Earth was in imminent danger as long as the gate was around and wouldn't the moon be a much safer place for everyone concerned.

Right.

Like anyone would come all this way to _just _blow up the Stargate and then leave.

Idiots.

He'd wanted to point out to them that if they moved the Stargate to the moon, then the IOA had better build themselves some permanent quarters there as well, considering how they always seemed to manage to be first in line at the event horizon when things got a little dicey. But just as that recommendation and a few choice others were about to leave the tip of his tongue he could envision her giving him a warning glance—imagine the nearly imperceptible shake of the blond head. And despite the fact that she'd been some gazillion million light years away on her first shake down cruise with her new toy, he knew better than to argue with her, even in absentia; and so he'd said nothing.

Which was probably the smart thing, in retrospect, considering how he'd already been reminded on several occasions that it was not exactly prudent to use "IOA", "kiss" and a colorful metaphor for a certain body part all in the same sentence. Not that he particularly cared—at least not for himself. But he wouldn't let his tendency to run on at the mouth ruin her career…not now that she'd forever permanently hitched her wagon to his. Well…not really—but he knew that that was how the IOA saw it, once word had gotten out. "Full disclosure" was the way the prissy French delegate had worded it. Throwing about the "conflict of interest" phrase as well. Like there was any more conflict of interest now than there'd been the moment she'd walked through that doorway all those years ago.

His heart skipped a beat just remembering it.

So yeah. He'd be circumspect. That was a good George Hammond word. And a strategy the old general had tried to teach him repeatedly over the past few years. One he never could quite get the hang of, in spite of George's efforts. But he'd give it another try, if it meant they'd get off her back and give her some breathing room. And when that red date circled on the calendar finally got here, he maybe could use that colorful metaphor…or perhaps a special hand gesture or two...to bid them all good-bye. And he'd sleep better at night knowing that she was no longer some pawn in a game they were playing in order to keep him in line.

Well. Marginally better, anyway.

But only if he weren't sleeping alone. Because there were still no guarantees. And a ring on her finger didn't mean she'd always come home or that there'd be no middle-of-the-night phone call from the President or that his worst nightmare of a permanently empty space beside him in the bed wouldn't come true.

Which was why, when he slept alone, he barely slept at all.

But that was another matter.

He stared at the drawn-up orders in front of him, a colorful blue sticker with "Sign" pointing to the line below which his name was typed.

Fine.

It was an idiotic idea. Probably the worst since the establishment of the IOA in the first place. But it was out of his hands. The phone call from Pennsylvania Avenue that morning had pretty much assured him of that. Someone had to be the fall guy, though—the name on record for history to blame. So why the hell not.

At least they hadn't named the damn thing after him.

He'd liked it better, though, when it'd been only a joke, and he and Carter had laughed about it, her eyes sparkling like diamonds in the dark.

He didn't even bother to try to contain the sigh as he scrawled his name on the paper and passed it unceremoniously back to his waiting aide.

"Call the SGC. And tell Landry he's going to need one hell of a big U-Haul."


End file.
